


The Tatooine Mission

by itsageneticpredisposition



Category: Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: #the one where obi wan kenobi kidnaps a baby, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Bechdel Test Pass, Gen, Wookieepedia is my best friend, b/c I have never read a Star Wars book
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-07-10 12:03:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6984340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsageneticpredisposition/pseuds/itsageneticpredisposition
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Obi-wan kidnaps a baby.</p><p>(From almost every point of view.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The One Where it’s Tahl’s Fault (Scenes 1-6)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [suzukiblu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suzukiblu/gifts).



**1.**

Obi-Wan does not just go to Tatooine. He isn’t on planet because he just wants to visit his family, or Qui-Gon and the mission go haywire, or the Force sticks its busy little hand into everyone’s lives like it is finger-painting a better ending.

Instead:

Tahl decides she needs to visit the Hutts (All Hutts. It's essential to her research, if the Council would please?). She will start on Tatooine, as soon as the twelve stuffiest masters in the order agree.

Tahl is a respected and skilled consular, but she is blind. Her padawan (Bant:15, Mon Calamari) is young and mostly ship-bound in any low humidity climate. Tatooine is a desert at the center of a binary-system. It took mere seconds for the Council to decide Tahl “could not go unprotected”. And, with all the authority Master Windu could muster, that “They could not spare a Knight for research on Outer Rim politics”. Tahl prepares her arguments, when-

Qui-Gon walks in. Unlike Tahl, Qui-Gon has a scheduled debriefing. He also has an appointment at the salles directly after (a pairs tournament; Obi-Wan fights alone if Qui-Gon isn’t on time). Like Tahl, Qui-Gon is happy to interrupt (Obi-Wan recently ruptured an eardrum).

Incredibly, Tahl acquiesces. She will not fight the Council on this matter; she does need to be accompanied to Tatooine, and the Council should not assign a Knight to watch over her. Especially because Master Jinn and his padawan have already agreed to come along.

This is obviously a lie. The entire Council can feel its a lie. Master Jinn bows low, an obedient servant of the Force, and tells the Council that he did agree to follow Master Tahl on her travels to Tatooine. If the good council would be so kind.

“On mandatory leave,” says Yoda, “Is your Padawan not, Master Jinn?”

Qui-Gon only lies a little when he says, “Obi-Wan has family on Tatooine. He would like to see them before he is a senior padawan.” And he does not remind them Obi-Wan will be expected to leave his family behind, by their decree.

And the Council consents.

 

 

**2.**

Obi-Wan is roughly as thrilled about this new mission as the Council was. He jogs behind Qui-Gon, a little singed, as they make their way to the quartermasters.

“I thought I wasn’t back on active duty for another five days?” Obi-Wan doesn’t ask so much as announce, trying to speak clearly.

Master Qui-Gon winces, and replies. Something “oo loud Pa” something “wa” something. Obi-Wan almost asks Qui-Gon to repeat that- his Master, without missing a beat, unfolds his arms and starts covering his ears.

Oh. “Sorry, Master” Obi-Wan whispers, and Qui-Gon nods, before signing back ‘correct.' Obi-Wan must assume that was a reference to volume because his lipreading practice as failed.

Later, Obi-Wan decides, he will ask his questions about the mission, and his early return to ready status. On flimsi. At the moment, he can enjoy mission prep with his master, and Bant and Master Tahl.

 

 

**3.**

_What do you mean I’m not part of the mission!_ Obi-Wan scrawls, _I’m already piloting the ship!_

With deliberate gentleness, Qui-Gon retrieves the stylus and flimsi from Obi-Wan’s over-tight grasp. His silent, pointed look directs his Obi-Wan back to his briefly abandoned duty. Obi-Wan returns to the readouts despite resentment warming him like an extra robe. They may be in hyperspace, but he is still, technically, piloting.

 _You are still on mandatory leave for the next four days._ _I'll return your lightsaber then_. His master leaves the flimsi on the center of the console, impossible to ignore, and moves away.

(Obi-Wan does not realize his sigh is audible, or that his Master magnanimously forgives him.)

"But my lightsaber is my life, Master?"

"Don't you trust me with your life, Padawan?" Obi-Wan thought he muttered to himself, so Qui-gon's reply nearly sends him out of his seat. "Perhaps you should meditate on that for the rest of your shift." 

Meekly, Obi-Wan agrees that he does, and should.

(Just outside of Obi-Wan's hearing, Tahl pounds on the wall until Qui-Gon apologizes for yelling in the middle of the night. Bant sleeps undisturbed.)

 

**4.**

_What am I going to do there?_ Qui-Gon had received the note at the beginning of his shift. He’d spoken with Tahl about it then, too. Twelve hours later he still hadn’t told Obi-Wan. The previous attempt, in all its glory, had left Obi-Wan subdued, but not docile. Qui-gon’s padawan, now off his 6 hour piloting shift and preparing to sleep, was getting antsy.

Qui-Gon is nervous. Tahl smiles smug around her morning caff, and finds it good entertainment.

(All the more because Qui-Gon is quiet, and panicked. He is about to send Obi-Wan through the same trial that Xanatos failed; every hour sends his tension ratcheting higher. But Obi-Wan doesn't even care they are visiting his birth-world. Tahl knows the only variable is how offended he will be.)

"Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon starts, tries again, "Padawan, we cannot take you to Jabba's Palace." And Obi-Wan indicates his agreement. (He doesn't want to go anywhere near it without his 'saber in hand.) "So I arranged a visit to your family.”

(Tahl is very wrong.)

Obi-Wan is a puppet with his strings cut, on his knees in the middle of the galley floor with an audible crash. He must be stretched out on the ‘plast, a wronged petitioner at the foot of his lord. The despair that erupts into the Force is poisonous and creeping; Tahl thinks, I caused this, and-

“I’m sorry, Master. What did I do?” Obi-Wan is not wailing or pleading, but his quiet, measured calm spirals away. He must think he’s whispering. “Please, Master, I am a Jedi, I have no attachment to them- Please don’t renounce me, I’ll get better-”

Qui-gon follows the poor boy to the floor. “Padawan, no, padawan, I would never…” And Tahl cannot hear the rest, because she is joining Bant in the cockpit. Some things are not meant to be overheard. The slide of the door covers her deep, measured breath.

“What are they doing back there?” Bant asks, and Tahl hugs her.

“You know I care for you. I would never abandon you.”

“Of course, Master. Why?” Her padawan sounds concerned, but Tahl smiles into Bant’s crest.

“No reason, Padawan. Let’s meditate.”

 

 

**5.**

“Master?” Obi-Wan asks while following Qui-gon off the ship, and into an oven. “Where are we?”

Both suns are blazing down; the closest mirage seems only feet away. “Your family home.” His master replies, unhelpful and unapologetic.

“Where is that, Master?” Obi-Wan tries again, but sheds his pack regardless. The field communicator always migrates to the bottom, and he sends an arm in after it.

“Here.” Qui-Gon, who left his robe on the transport, actually seems comfortable.

Here, by Obi-Wan’s comm, is about 300 klicks from Mos Eisley, the closest spaceport. It is hard to believe that Republic doctors ever visited Tatooine; it's a miracle one found this homestead. The ship dwarfs the entire complex.

Like the krayt dragon, the house itself lurked below the surface, hidden in the sand. Uncharitably, Obi-Wan decided the dome resembled an abscess, and the house itself the pits of an acne scar. He knew people with skin just like this desert, dry and cracked and ugly. He despises this-

His throat tightens, but Obi-Wan masters himself. With effort, he sends a smooth slide of emotion into the Force. He is a Jedi. He will not hate.

“You don’t plan to leave during the next three days, do you?” Qui-Gon continues like he can’t feel the new shadow that Obi-Wan just stained them with. “Tatooine has no public transit.”

“No, Master.” Obi-Wan has borrowed some credit chits from the emergency stash. He isn’t planning to travel the twelve hundred klicks between here and the Jabba’s Palace, but a Jedi is always prepared. He’d rather not walk.

"Is your bag full, Padawan?”

“No?" Obi-Wan asks, " Master? ”

"Then why not put," Qui-Gon pinches the fold of Obi-Wan's robe, "this," a sharp tug, "away?" Obi-Wan's robe hangs back down his shoulders; worse, he can feel a new, foreboding weight in his hood.

"Master!"

Qui-Gon says "This is not a diplomatic convention, Obi-Wan. There is no need for formality." When Obi-Wan still doesn't shed the contaminated robe, he adds "Covering oneself, and the house, in sand will not make a good impression. Even here."

Obi-Wan can feel Qui-gon's amusement. It is completely unrestrained, unshielded. Instead of his Master's usual skilled dispersion, his unvoiced laughter frolics -like a dolphin through the ocean or a crechling in the rain- through the Living Force.

In the space between heartbeats, Obi-Wan's teetering awareness of the Unifying Force is shattered. The deeper currents of this world are swamped and overthrown by Qui-gon's clear, and clearly projected, amusement. Obi-Wan’s field comm falls, and neatly covers itself in sand.

Wide-eyed and distant, Obi-Wan picks it up.

“Perhaps you should spend more time in the Living Force, ” Qui-Gon says. A large handful of grit pours down onto Obi-Wan’s neck, into his hair. Standing, comm in hand, sends sand running down his tunics. “Two hours a day.” Qui-Gon decides, “at least.”

Obi-Wan isn’t sure when Qui-Gon stopped protecting pathetic lifeforms.

 

 

**6.**

He’s dawdling in the courtyard at the heat of the day when a ship roars over the Jundland Wastes. The ship sounds like a freighter, but sets down with the light touch of an empty hold; the house barely feels it. Cliegg heads for the dome. His throat is tight, but he takes the stairs two at a time. Then, as the dust settles, Cliegg hears Owen’s whimper crackle through the monitor.

One son cannot take precedence, and Cliegg heads back downstairs.

Owen likes engine noises, but he picks up Cliegg’s nerves and won’t settle down. By the time Cliegg reaches the surface, the boarding ramp has already hit sand. It stretches shadow-like at the heels of Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn and-

Cliegg could mistake the boy, his boy, for a Jawa. Next to the craggy cliff of the man beside it, the robed figure does look like one of the wily traders pawing through a bag. Until, of course, the figure stands.

His boy isn’t tall, and he doesn’t have the stretched appearance of most teenage boys. If Cliegg didn’t know better, he’d guess someone else’s thirteen-year-old child. But when Jinn tugs Ben’s hood off, there’s no doubt at all.

Cliegg never expected Ben to look like Edern. Maybe him, probably Ben’s mother, maybe a grandfather. Instead, his elder son takes after Cliegg’s younger brother, down to the day Edern died, and isn’t that a mouthful of sand. (No wonder she didn’t keep him, Cliegg doesn’t think, Ben couldn’t look anything like her husband.)

Ben drops something, clumsy boy, and Cliegg unfreezes. He best invite them inside before anyone gets heat-addled.


	2. The One Where it’s Tatooine’s Fault (Scenes 7-12)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am completely blown away by the response to this? Thank you so much.
> 
> OphisPeleia betaed for me, and is amazing. She read over this, said to add more Shmi (which is always good advice) and walked me through a scene that ended up in Chapter 3. However, she hasn't seen this bit for at least 2 revisions, and so all mistakes are most definitely mine.

 

**7.**

For a moment more, Cliegg watches Ben and Master Jinn freely. Ben scowls up, tilts his chin, speaks loudly. He slips off the robe, shakes it, packs it messily away; the bag bulges around it. Then, Cliegg leaves the long shadow of the dome, and-

(Obi-Wan sees his father walking towards them and pushes serenity into his outward demeanor; he is a Jedi. He will make Qui-Gon proud.)

(Qui-Gon skillfully weaves his exasperation into stream of the Living Force, letting it mix in with an infant’s disquiet and under Cliegg’s sudden disappointment. He denies feeling any relief at all.)

There might be a wall between him and his child, because at Cliegg’s approach Ben- he unreacts, hides every reaction, constructs a stone facade. In the space of an instant: his brow unfurls, his frown disappears, his posture shifts, and he steps back into a hand abruptly pushing him forward. Master Jinn smiles, pushes harder and calls out, “Hello, Master Lars. ”

“Cliegg. The Lars family holds no Master.” They are at arm's length now, but Cliegg doesn’t take his hands off his gun. “It’s nice to meet you in person, Master Jinn.”

“Qui-Gon, please.” The Jedi gestures with his free hand towards Ben, “And this is your son.”

“It’s my pleasure, Master Lars. I am Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

 

 

**8.**

It is twelve hundred kilometers to Mos Eisley and another hundred to the Jawa camps by the Waste. A three-day excursion, if skies stay blue, and more they when don’t. Either way, her three water rations will disappear far too quickly. Death could come under much kinder circumstances.

Shmi, bereft, now faces an additional challenge. The last Market sent Lenore (let her debts be paid) a hundred thousand kilometers away. 

Watto needs the fresh, usable scrap this season. Already he’s cut food rations, and sold sweet Lenore; he is risking her on this mad expedition. If he misses a payment, Jabba’s lawmakers won’t hesitate to take the first, most valuable belonging in sight. 

Shmi will not leave her boy alone.

 

 

**9.**

Cliegg burns with anger when his freeborn son bows like a slave. The accusation lies over Cliegg’s shoulders like the scars of his grandmother, holds him like the chains of his grandfather and blazes in his chest like the twin suns that dried the world.

She said their son would be a Jedi, an avatar of the Republic. That Ben never have to choose between death and slavery. Instead, he is on Tatooine, following a Master and covered in sand.

Ben couldn’t even keep his name. 

“Cliegg, our apologies,” _Master_ Jinn interrupts, and how did Cliegg no see. “Obi-Wan badly ruptured his ear drum.” 

(Cliegg hates Ben’s slave-name. He would never have found his child - had he known to look.)

“Padawan,” Qui-Gon continues at a much greater volume. Cliegg shifts back; Ben finally stands like a freeborn. “Flimsi?”

Then, while his master isn’t looking, Ben pulls a trick any Wizard would be proud of. 

(He is overjoyed to consider, that perhaps Ben is less trapped than Cliegg thought.)

 

 

**10.**

In the pre-dawn shadows, Shmi carries her son. While she can, Shmi holds him, and going door to door only requires one free hand. With her hair a week regrown, she already cuts a pathetic figure, but her boy’s big blue eyes do not hurt their cause.

“Please, _pateesa.”_

_“Mah bukee yarga,_ Shmi, we are all thirsty!” Paab’idi whispers, lekku curling under like a bantha’s horns. “He’ll be thirsty until he dies. Get him a contract.” They spit into sand but don’t take it back. “Then he might live longer.”

Through the doorway, Aoruh’sidi bows under the force of her cough. It’s dry like the sheets and her skin. The tiny blue child pants, whimpers, stares at Shmi in wide-eyed appeal. “Paabi, I hadn’t known,” Shmi says, and regrets.

“You couldn’t have,” Paabi’idi replies, “We didn’t know until Market Day. You were busy.”

“You are right.” Shmi shifts Anakin higher on her hip, hugs him tighter. “He might live longer.” Shmi will not sell her child in fear of the Dry Cough; it doesn’t care for water either way. “Your debts be paid, _pateesa_. And your children find freedom.”

“And yours, Shmi. _Chess ko_.” Paabi closes her door, and Shmi turns away.

 

 

**11.**

His padawan bows low, says only slightly too loud, “It’s my pleasure, Master Lars. I am Obi-Wan Kenobi”. Obi-Wan’s control is at its best, and Qui-Gon, for a split second, thinks this might go well.

Cliegg stiffens, draws himself in - a black hole of emotion. Even Yoda won’t be able to read this man. Then the man sets his shoulders; to Qui-Gon’s chagrin, he finds the motion familiar. 

“Cliegg, our apologies. Obi-Wan badly ruptured his ear drum.” Qui-Gon breathes deeply in the interest of calm, patience and damage control. “Padawan,” he projects. Cliegg steps back, flashing a white-knuckled grip on his blaster, and Obi-Wan straightens from the bow. “Flimsi?” 

With a slight of hand practiced under Bant's recent tutelage, Obi-Wan moves one hand, and the flimsi appears in the other. It is a flagrant abuse of the Force, in front of a non-sensitive; Cliegg stares unabashedly. 

(It is something Xanatos might have done, to fool and unnerve the uninitiated. Something Dark.)

Against all expectation, both Lars boys flood the Force with honest joy. 

 

 

**12.**

The consensus, down every sandstone street and lane, is a drought’s coming. 

(It’s the poles; the poles cooled down. Hit the dew point every night, and look where that puts us.)

It’s not just Watto; every master from farmers to the Hutts are cutting down. Some masters, Shmi hears, have threatened the water ration (let Lenore be safe). When Shmi spreads the word, real unrest brews in front of her. The slaves of Tatooine sold themselves (their children) for that water; this is how riots start.

At dawn, Shmi must work.

That night, she holds Anakin to her chest, breathes steadily under his weight, and plans. She collected1.5 liters, a half-ration, and it sits sealed in her stew pot (a hope and a promise to repay). She’ll need at least that much more. She’ll need to store it, and pack it in secret.She’ll need to teach Anakin to sleep in her backpack, to hide away from the suns and sand. 

(She has less than a week, and no more friends to ask for water.)

The next morning, an old, crushed vaporator appears in the dump. Shmi takes a moment to think, and to hope. 

(If this works, her son will live _free_.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so it's shorter and possibly repetitive, but it came out early? Does this even out?
> 
> Comments appreciated?


	3. The One Where it’s Qui-Gon’s Fault (Scenes 13-18)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter did not want to happen.

**13.**

“Bant.”

“Master!” Bant whips her head around, but Tahl knows her padawan. Bant still has one eye on the standoff outside. “I was just-”

“Spying.” Tahl finishes. It's tempting to draw out the suspense, but she knows (herself) better. “What’s happened so far?” 

Bant sighs, despondent; Tahl tugs on her braid. “Keep it in the Force, Padawan. We are on a mission.”

“Yes, Master.” Tahl has the best padawan; she can feel Bant’s mental shift through both their shields. “Obi-Wan finally took off his robe. Master Qui-Gon did something?”

Tahl could feel Qui-Gon’s amusement; Bant guessed well. “His father?”

“Just walking over. Six foot, brown hair, about thirty? Build like Obi-Wan’s, I think.” Tahl nodded her approval. Recognition and memorization were good skills to practice, especially when lending someone a padawan. “But-Oh! Obi-Wan offered full honors. That’s why he wouldn’t take the robe off. He could have just said so.”

“Alright Bantling, enough snooping.”

Bant reluctantly agrees, so Tahl herds her curious padawan back through pilot’s suite, and into the cockpit. Her brilliant padawan cycles power to life-support and engines before she even sits down. A dozen clicks and a buzzing crescendo mark the transport’s reanimation, as well one blunt, accusatory alarm. 

“Padawan. You said you would be fine on your own.”

“I am,” Bant replies, wounded. “The airlock’s open; I can’t close it until everyone’s on board.” But she can mute it.

Tahl hums agreement and gratitude, and reaches beyond the immediate. The Force flows on this planet, Qui-Gon’s powerful outburst already absorbed into the desert. Such disruptions are not uncommon. Whether the usual source is sentient or not is less clear.

“I have a feeling, Padawan,” Tahl says, “that we will have an interesting mission.”

Their brief, reverent silence is broken by another blasted alarm.

“Sorry, Master.”

“Please tell me,” Master Qui-Gon interrupts, ducking his head under the lintel, “that nothing is irreparably broken.”

 

 

**14.**

“You are a Jedi, Obi-Wan. You always have been. But for this mission, you will stay here.”

“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan says. He’s walking the thin line between incomprehension and dissent. 

Qui-Gon sighs. This is Obi-Wan’s decision; his padawan must choose his path, and Qui-Gon must not influence him, to any end. “I’ll return four days from now.”

(It would be so easy-) 

“Yes, Master. Then we go back home?”

(-to convince his Padawan to stay.)

“Yes, Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan stills stares at the door and its impervious stains. “Master.” He shapes the words carefully, quietly. “I will miss you.” 

They are alone in the hold; No one would know if Qui-Gon allowed the teaching moment to pass them by. “That sounds like attachment.”

Obi-Wan follows along despite Bant’s imperfect atmospheric flight, and his potential distraction. It’s to his credit. “Master, I am letting you go.”

“Jedi are servants of the Force, but we are still free beings.”

“From my point of view,” Obi-Wan says, “I am losing your insight. And skill.”

“Ah.” That is, Qui-Gon must admit, a clever twist on the Master’s Oath. So: “You lost the Force?”

Obi-Wan recoils, the question a saber at his throat. “No!”

“Then you’ve lost nothing. The Force will provide.” From their pilot comes a particularly strong sense of expectant nausea. “Padawan, hold on!”

They reach as one, Qui-Gon above his head and Obi-Wan to his master’s shoulder. The ship lurches up; Qui-Gon has just enough time to grab Obi-Wan before it tumbles back down. Stretched from floor to ceiling, Qui-Gon is the pillar holding his apprentice in relative safety. Obi-Wan looks him in the eye, as gravity recovers, and says “Your support, then.”

Qui-Gon lets go, but Obi-Wan’s landing is light-footed and sure. “Yes, you may miss that. And I will not ask your service, in return,” Qui-Gon says. “Although I hope,” he continues, “that you will respect your father as you would a Master of the Order. And honor him as you honor me.”

“Sorry, Master, Obi-Wan,” the intercom hisses, a static cipher keyed from Bant’s voice, “that sandstorm’s really bad.”

The hold jerks again, but this time Obi-Wan stands on his own.

 

 

**15.**

“Well,” Cliegg says, throwing the blaster’s strap over his shoulder, “best get inside.” He beckons towards the stucco dome and its inset door, half-submerged. Obi-Wan isn’t certain if he was meant to hear that. On one hand, he could hear his father speak; this requires significant effort. On the other, the gesture started with a funny little wave- to get his attention?

Obi-Wan motions open hand towards the door in reply and-

(as you would a Master)

-offers an almost belated bow. Before Obi-Wan straightens, Cliegg Lars is moving homeward, the gun bouncing wildly behind him. Caught off guard, Obi-Wan’s bow turns into a swift retrieval. His bag’s wild sweep only sprays sand nearly everywhere.

Cliegg’s urgency is a welcome change from the expectant stare, which covered Obi-Wan’s arms and neck in furious goosebumps. More disconcerting is the low, growing rumble of the ship behind him. On a ship this size, the whine of the engines should be (louder) paired with caution lights, a bright green band marking safety and the bright red for danger. Instead, the twin suns bleach all man-made warnings to vanity.

Obi-Wan considers Qui-Gon’s usual speed of departure, and moves faster.

In the end, the shadow of the dome hits Obi-Wan before take-off shakes the ground. The pressure wave sends sand and stones tumbling, and they ring the door like a bell.

The dome is small, cramped, and cool. After the blazing, painful heat of the desert, it is also wonderfully dark. Defensible, if one doesn’t mind scraping the ceiling, but with terrible footing. There’s more sand than floor. “Sorry about the mess,” Cliegg enunciates clearly, scraping past one of the smaller crates. It doesn’t shift. “Putting in a garage. Extra pourstone is…”

The rest melts briefly into gibberish as Cliegg turns toward the top of the staircase, lit up amber from below. At the bottom landing, he looks back up.

“Come on; it’s Raider season.” And Obi-Wan follows Cliegg down.

 

 

**16A.**

Shmi’s double silhouette stretches over her back door, and hides the shaking of her hands in the deepest shadow. She thinks she would be stronger, had she been caught.

Clang! Clunk-clunk-clunk, cr-RING! Shmi whips back around, ripping her key back out of the lock. “Hello-?”

There’s no one there.

Under the sound her heartbeat, Anakin babbles and claps and his tiny arm grasps at the parts piled in trailer. “Hush, baby,” Shmi says, keys in hand. “Baby Ani boy, hush. Sweetheart, oasis in my life…” Baby-talking her way around Watto’s speeder, the trailer with the swoop bikes and the vaporator, the perimeter of her little courtyard.

There’s no one- right now. But that doesn’t make it safe.

Shmi packs Ani in the scrap beside her, nestles him in the wires. She hunts her goggles under the seat, wraps her scarf, checks the ration levels.

There are safe places, in the Dune sea.

 

 

**16B.**

Where the dunes meet beneath her, the sand runs together.

_Twenty-six hundred steps until the tree._

Shmi starts Lenore’s song as Slave’s Row disappears behind her. Red-gold in the half-dawn light, each dune is well remembered. She’s following the passage of a hundred years, a thousand slaves. Ani is laughing, and for a moment, Shmi is laughing, too.

_Walk towards the dawn and you’ll be free._

Each meter over the sand is still a triumph, but the ache isn’t the same in a speeder. Her thighs don’t burn; her sweat doesn’t run into her eyes to seed more tears. If she skims her hand along a dune, it will take her skin off.

_Carry nothing over the dune sea_

Shmi knows the pilgrimage, the song, the escape it promises over the horizon.

_Twenty-six eighty steps until dead tree_

But that’s not her intention today.

One verse, 60 kilometers an hour, and Shmi turns right, sends a dragon’s wing flying into the sky.

 

 

**17.**

She rolls the base off first. On edge, the metal disk is taller than Shmi and as wide as her thigh. It is comfortingly heavy before she fills the ballast tank.

She welds the cap in place, after.

Then the reservoir, the purifier, the dehumidifier, and the replacement locks retrieved from the smuggler’s trunk. Pulls the casing together, warped and broken, and welds that into place, too. Even in the canyon’s shade, sweat is oozing past her goggles and seeping through her scarf as the last round is set into place. At least Anakin, half buried in upturned sand, seems comfortable.

The spire, flag-less, peaks just under the lip of the gorge, perhaps a meter beyond Shmi’s reach. It will do.

(The next bit is harder.) 

Traditionally, vaporators are solar powered; Shmi’s has a port, but no panels. The sun paints another hand-span down the wall blinding white before Shmi sacrifices the bikes.

They have to be wrenched apart. Blood flakes off the handles, but thankfully, the two racers aimed at each other (The desert has taken them; may the next life be free). Only a few scorch marks mar the red bike’s finish, and it’s battery is mint.

  

 

**18.**

Anchorhead was smaller than Tahl expected, and emptier. “Perhaps,” Qui-Gon says, like he didn’t provide them, “the coordinates are wrong.”

“Perhaps.” The wind breaks as they enter the settlement proper. It whispers through shutters, and Tahl walks through sand drifts dancing in the street. A distant flag snaps and falls, and leaps again. “Have you seen anyone?”

“Not yet. ” The soft slip-slide of Qui-Gon’s cloak against her own goes silent; Tahl turns left until she feels it again. This new street is wider; the breeze kicks up, but there’s still no shade. Poor, pale Qui-Gon will be burning soon.

The chance to tease is too attractive, but Qui-Gon ruefully agrees with Tahl’s assessment; their laughter nearly (but not quite) covers the tuneless clatter of unseen marksmen taking aim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has just reached 150 kudos- aka exactly 30 times more than I ever hoped for. Thank you guys so much. Every comment is loved and hoarded.
> 
> Extra thanks to OphisPeleia, who is an amazing beta no matter what she says.


	4. Bonus Scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Sue_Clover, for asking a question I did not have an answer for (Because, spoilers! I did my best to figure it out).

“Master? Why the Outer Rim?” Bant asks, after what _must_ be due consideration.

Tahl can’t look Bant in the eye anymore, but the tilted head means the same thing these days. The raised eyebrow helps. “Why not the Outer Rim?”

Bant sighs and resigns herself to an extended study of localized politics. “I don’t know, Master. Why not the Outer Rim.”

“Well,” Tahl says with a smile, “I’m blind and you, my dear padawan, have not had the lightsaber training you deserve. And the Rim is a hive of scum and villainy.” Bant recognizes the quotation from a current events workshop, and there’s the eyebrow again. “What else do you know about the region?”

Oh. “It’s farthest from the Coruscant Proximate Sector, and there’s some confusion on whether the Outer Rim seceded or not? After the Ruusan Reformation, most territories recalled their senators.”

“And then?”

I’m never going to be a diplomat, Bant reminds herself, before committing a politician’s cardinal sin. Again. “I don’t know, Master.”

Tahl reaches out, oh so carefully, to tip Bant’s chin back up, until Bant was back in perfect lotus. “This is not your failing, Padawan. I do not expect you to divine what no one can teach- not until after you’re knighted.” She says it warmly, and sends shared amusement rebounding through their bond to wash away Bant’s embarrassment. “The Reconciliation Council doesn’t know either; there has been a prohibition on sharing reports on foreign political bodies for a few hundred years now. If a Jedi alive knows the state of the rim, they cannot tell us.”

“So we go to the Outer Rim?” It’s not clear how will help, but Bant trusts her Master.

“To every planet still in the Republic.” And oh, _foreign_ political bodies. “Until there is no ignorance-”

“There is knowledge.” They finish together, letting the bond pull master and padawan together. Peace pools around them, following the well-trodden paths in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. 

Tahl briefly interrupts their meditation a few minutes later. “I should set an appointment with the High Council,” she says to the fern right of Bant's shoulder. And during Bant's gentle correction ("Over here, Master") and the subsequent joint giggle fit, the epiphany is forgotten.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title: The One Where it's Sue_Clover's Fault ...but this isn't a full chapter and I thought I should make that clear from the beginning. Also, this one's unbeta'd; all errors are mine.
> 
> Also, this is how much I love comments?!? Like, this scene just appeared out of the comment section like whale breaching the surface of my subconscious, ensuring I would think of nothing else all day.


	5. The One Where it’s the Wastes' Fault (Scenes 19-24)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, many thanks to OphisPeleia for volunteering to beta read, and apologies for mistakes I slip in after she does her good work.

**19.**

  
****

There’s a panel at the bottom of the stairs, set deep in the sandstone walls. Cliegg uses it to trigger the sliding locks that hold the front door closed. Its light reflects upward, flickers like torchlight when Cliegg’s hand passes over it again. The metal door beyond him opens with the violent creak of over-strained hinges. 

Then, Cliegg waits. 

He’s smiling, a sharp change that sends Obi-Wan’s hand drifting to his vacant belt. (Cliegg is larger, but Obi-Wan still has the high ground.) But the smile cedes ground under Obi-Wan’s scrutiny.“Come on, then,” Cliegg says, amiable still. He hasn’t moved away from the landing. 

Obi-Wan pushes _serenity_ into the Force, the new spring in a dry well, until the impurities wash away. Dives in until he can feel the storm’s eye, the flat mirror of the Unifying Force stretched over the immediate, and then the future-past. Serenity, and for a breath, the Force reflects even the semblance of thought, of passion.

( _In, two three four.)_

Cliegg hand reaches out, beckons.

( _Out, two three four._ )

The Force feels fresh. Obi-Wan’s efforts are blowing away like writing in the sand; Qui-Gon’s deep imprints barely survived this long. A new wave of emotion and intent gathers and breaks, but it’s not malicious or Cliegg- 

(stomach aches, gurgles, where’s safe-warm-not-mom)

-the sharp, piercing cry of an unhappy infant rings out. Obi-Wan resurfaces. 

 

 

 

**20.**

 

“Qui-Gon.” The echo of blasters cocking, and taking aim, is quiet compared to Tahl’s voice. 

“Yes, Tahl?”

“What did you do?”

Qui-Gon considers his potential response (“Who is the greater fool…?”), but his silence breaks under soft, dainty footsteps and the reverberating _thunk_ of what isn’t a falling body. Thankfully.

From around another corner, walks a tree. Lift, drag, _thunk_. A pair of shuffling steps. Lift, drag, _thunk_.

Grasped around its stone-white trunk is a delicate, purple hand (thunk) followed by the rest of an indelicate woman (thunk). Every shuffling step, her hand holds her old robe closed, and wispy curls of silver hair fall forward over pointed ears. Her burden (thunk) dwarfs her in its gnarled glory. Half glowing under the dual suns, (thunk) it might be distant, frozen lightning from some long-gone storm.

“Greetings, Grandmother.” 

The ancient Sephi woman stares Qui-Gon down with an unexpectedly sharp gaze. “I think I would remember a grandson like you, Qui-Gon Jinn. Now, what are you doing here?” And the dozen or more sharpshooters, arrayed in windows and on rooftops, shuffle nervously. Perhaps some of them turn their safeties back on. 

“Qui-Gon,” Tahl whispers, “Explain.” 

 

 

 

**21.**

 

It belongs to Cliegg.

“Owen, your brother,” Cliegg says, as he pushes the suspended baby closer to Obi-Wan. The freshly-burped infant ( _Owen)_ is no longer crying; he just watches, dubious. One hanging leg kicks out fretfully, then the other. Obi-Wan doesn’t uncross his arms.

So Cliegg folds Owen back to a close, cradling hold. Before Obi-Wan can relax, Cliegg steps forward and deposits the infant in Obi-Wan’s arms. It’s like Qui-Gon with one of his ‘rescued’ strays. (It’s the smallest child he’s ever held, lighter than the pack on his shoulders.) 

Obi-Wan stares into Owen’s own huge, open eyes. He has to grab and hold (not tight, but secure, padawan) as Owen thrusts his tiny arms up, fingers outstretched. Then, with great speed, Owen retracts back into a ball and bursts back into a screaming, sobbing mess. 

Qui-Gon isn’t here to teach and soothe the crying infant, but Cliegg is. 

“Here, Ben, we just moved too fast,” Cliegg says under and around Owen’s wailing, reaching out. “Take his arms- yes, gently- and hold them…”

 

 

 

**22.**

  
****

“You! _Uba Alay, Stoopa_!” Watto accuses, pressing the sharp edge of clawed fingers into Shmi’s neck. She can feel the spray of mucus as he repeats himself. “You’re late, stupid!”

“ _H'chu apenkee, ma lorda_.” Shmi bows under Watto’s weight, enduring it, until her head nearly touches Watto’s stomach. A bead of sweat slides down the arch of her nose.

Watto hisses his response -“Speak Basic, girl! What if someone’s listening!”- as he bears down again, forcing a deeper bow.Her short, spiky hair just brushes his stomach when-

“Urgh!” Watto recoils a full meter, releasing his hold to rub fitfully where her hair touched. “You humans are disgusting,” he continues, louder. His glare shifts back and forth as he floats down to eye-level; his left hand migrates to his unshaven chin. “So, where’s the boy?” 

Watto doesn’t wait for a reply before returning to the shop. “Ani’s in the speeder,” Shmi throws at his swiftly departing back, standing tall, “with the wiring, Master.” 

(Bait the line with sandworms, drag your bait past the fullest den.)

Watto pauses, considering, asks “You stripped circuits?” 

(Shmi and Lenore had, during Shmi’s confinement. In the morning, Lenore would drag the freshest junk into their kitchen, and then Shmi would dismantle it all. Midday, they’d do the finest work together: retrieve the smallest lengths of wire from each piece, and try not to lose them amongst the food. They’d save every half centimeter of salvagable insulation. The half-full crate represented a dozen hours- two weeks’ siesta working over stolen goods. A promise for Ani’s future.)

“A shorted vaporator came in after a leak; the casing was in good shape. And the circuits came out quick.”

“You bring the insulation, too, huh?” Watto’s wings miss a beat, and Shmi watches the resulting drop altitude with concern. Wire was useful. The rubber insulation could be a back-breaking expense in this dry and the heat. But such a strong reaction?

“Let’s see if you get your ration after all,” Watto decides, circling back towards the speeder. Shmi bows again, and doesn’t smile and doesn’t scowl and doesn’t sigh. 

(Bait or lure or poison them, but don’t let them know you care. That’s how you kill a kryat dragon.)

 

 

 

**23.**

 

“Relax.” The matriarch punctuates her order with a long, heavy sweep of her cane. (The staff pushes dust into the air; promising some undignified sneezing in Tahl’s future.) It’s not clear who, exactly, she’s speaking to. Neither Qui-Gon, nor the motley collection of snipers, pays the order any heed. “I know this man, a _Jeedai_ , and he is not a slaver.”

That statement, at least, prompts some movement from the gunmen on high. As blasters are holstered, the present current of wariness diffuses into a healthy trickle. Tahl hopes Qui-Gon will that hint and say- “My companion is Jedi Master Tahl. I have known her, and she is not a slaver.”

Always the diplomat, Tahl muses fondly, as she lets thanks-affection-relief wash between them. 

“I’ll be the judge of that, boy, but bring her in. It’s not like she can tell the Hutts where we’re hiding.” And that stung two-fold: that she would try to expose this community, and the insinuation that she couldn’t. How does one deny both without arousing suspicion?

Qui-Gon speaks before Tahl has any idea how to respond. “My apologies, Grandmother, but we do not even know your name. Should I trust you more than forty years of friendship?” 

“Rosa, you _koochoo Ootman._ And I’ve known you for that long at least.” Rosa’s _humph_ marks the final melted sputter from the candle of her disdain, paired with another swing of the staff (thunk) as she turns around. Qui-Gon retakes Tahl’s arm and starts forward. “If I can know you without that _stoopa_ hairstyle,” Rosa continues over the sound of the staff, “you should know me.”

And as she walks away, “So, where’s the little green one? I want to show him my cane.”

 

 

 

**24.**

 

Shadows grow together; they creep up the dunes like a coloring bruise. Under a falling second sun, the dim twilight crawls over the desert. 

Between the red sky and purple dunes, riders plod across the desert. Fearless, their silhouettes obscure the horizon as entire clans melt back into the Waste. There has been a gathering. The A’Ghorfa, the people, have spoken. 

Each clan must defend their ancestral land from the thieves who have lingered too long. These _settlements_ and _cities_ anger K’rayt URRoro and so it demands their punishment. The Wanderer will hoard the life-water until the people respond to K’rayt’s call.

_Cities_ , with their _watchmen_ and _street-lamps_ , must wait until the Dragon sends a storm to conceal its raiders.The rest who defy K’rayt are free prey to every Tusken warrior who braved the desert and won their soul. Let there be blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very sorry for how long it has been; I got a real job which promptly took over my life. On the brightside, i get to eat during the school year and thus will survive long enough to write more, so, fair trade-off?
> 
> Every comment treasured! (And reread, like, at least 3 times.)

**Author's Note:**

> This is Suzukiblu's fault. The first four scenes are on Tumblr, the rest might show up there anyway.


End file.
